Thin Lines
by CrazedConfusion
Summary: Insomnia, midnight coffee breaks, and a need for a shoulder to cry on. (Don't pay attention to the daemons). -In which no one knows anything- -AU, slash/yaoi/sort-of-tcest (you'll see), darker themes. Rated T, bordering M possibly.
1. These Empty Hearts

**This is my new attempt at a story I can keep up with. Be warned that this story deals with darker themes, such as character death and abuse in various forms. If you do not feel comfortable with these topics, please don't read this story.**

**Also, I'm not fantastic with humour, but I'll do my best. I just don't want it to be too dark.**

**I don't own anything you might recognise.**

_These Empty Hearts  
Prologue_

_Because sometimes, it's better to just let yourself fall._

Michelangelo stands, perched on the very edge. Waiting. He traces the edge of the rooftop with his feet, toeing the thin line between dangerous and fatal. He stands still for almost five full minutes, something so very unlike him. But he is waiting. Waiting for something _someone_ that should have been here by now. Raphael. He always knew when Mike was feeling this way, and he always came to his rescue. And if not him, then Leonardo. Donatello.

And then it strikes him.

His brothers are not coming for him. They can't, because they are gone. They are never coming back. They can't. No one is coming to save him, and no one ever will. Ever.

Michelangelo takes one last breath. Holds it. As if suffocating himself will erase what happened last night. Will erase what is about to happen.

But nothing gives. Except Michelangelo.

After all these years of being rescued, dragged away from the edge at the last second by a boy who had his very being, his soul, memorised.

But there is no Raphael to save him now.

And his mind is nothing but explosions and love and comfort in the middle of the night and he can't think straight and suddenly everything is clear and he remembers everything. The kisses and waking up early to make breakfast and the sneaking out to go topside and the breathless lies about how "I'll always be there for you, Michelangelo" and the screams and shouts on the very last nights and the police sirens racing to the Purple Dragons and the time Leo saved his life and - _everything_. Every last detail. The burning clarity of every last memory. Every last thought, burning to the ground. Every moment Michelangelo ever shared with his brothers, gone. And the fire is too pretty to regret, the New York sewers on fire, the rooftops, the streets and April's barn and every spot is a spark, every moment a flame, and every inch a wildfire. This city is burning down, and Michelangelo is going down with it.

The memories, every moment, every kiss, every touch swallows him up, whole and alive, and Michelangelo lets himself fall.

And the fatal explosion in his mind seems to swallow him up, like it did his brothers, and sweep him away for the rest of time.


	2. Death and Secrets

**_I do not own anything recognizable._**

**_Special thanks to orangebarmy for favoriting literally minutes after I posted._**

**_Also, there is some speech being slurred here. I'm not that bad at spelling._**

_Thin Lines  
Chapter 1_

Today was supposed to be a special day. A happy one. A day for celebration. The tiny baby was finally coming home for the first time, after spending his first month in a sterile white hospital.

_Too many issues_, the doctors said.

_He's not going to make it_, they said.

But he did.

Cause for celebration, right?

Wrong. Sara walks through the door with her baby in her arms and instantly is confronted by Mark. The man she thought she loved.

"The lil' run' made it, I see," he snarls right away.

"Mark, he's your son!" Sara exclaims, horrified. She forces herself to calm down, saying, "You're only drunk again, aren't you Mark?"

"I en't drunk," he says, but now Sara can pick up the slur in his speech. "Woss 'is nem?"

"His name is Michelangelo. He was my favorite artist."

Mark exploded with rage.

"En' no chil' ov mine gon' be colled Michelangelo!" he yelled. "En' no way in hell!"

"Mark, I asked you about this name!" Sara screamed, trying to blink back tears. "I asked you weeks ago and you said yes!"

"You en' never said nuthin' 'bout some 'Michelangelo' shi'!" Mark yelled back. "You en' never!"

"That's a lie!" Sara couldn't bring herself to stop yelling. Or crying. "That is an outright lie and you know it!"

"Get away from me," Mark finally said, a voice dangerously low. "Go upstairs or somfin, just, away from me."

Sara pulled Michelangelo closer to her chest. She dried her tears as she walked up the stairs to Mike's room. She laid him in his cradle and smiled softly.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, darling," she whispered. "Momma loves you."

"I'm so sorry, Sara."

Silence.

"Sara. You were right. I was drunk. I shouldn't have been and I shouldn't have yelled at you and I'm sorry," Mark says. "I think Michelangelo is a beautiful name."

Sara finally turns away from the stove to face him.

"I forgive you," she whispers, "but you can't do this, Mark. No more going out late with your friends for 'just a few drinks'. No more getting drunk."

"I won't, Sara-"

"I mean it, Mark. We've a family now, and we can't be doing things like that anymore."

"I promise, Sara. Those days are gone."

Sara nods and goes back to her cooking.

The next morning, Mark is dead. A bloody gash straight through his back. She calls the police right away, avoids her husband. Doesn't want to look.

"The evidence points to you, Sara."

"Arrest me, then. Anything would be better for my son."

"Sara..."

"If I confess, it makes me no more guilty."

"You still say you are innocent."

"I do."

The next day, Sara is dead. Hanged from the ceiling fan in her living room. Her suicide note reads, please take care of my son.

"It's okay, Mikey. First day at a new school is always hard," my nana says, combing my light brown hair in the ornate mirror in the living room. "It's high school. You're the youngest fish in the pond again."

Nana is like that. Always saying things that don't quite make sense, but are nice to hear anyway. She's nearing on 60, so she's not senile, but she grew up in this small town in Massachusetts, and I guess they do things differently there than in New York.

"And don't forget, Mike," Grandpa says. "Just cause you're smart doesn't mean you get to slack all the time."

Grandpa's voice is gruff, and he's a good five years older than Nana. not particularly interested in romance, but I still think they are the best couple I've ever seen.

"I know, Grandpa," I say. They've been lecturing me on slacking off since I decided to skip sixth grade, almost three years ago.

"That's enough preening, Nana," Grandpa grins, "don't wanna be late for the first day of high school."

I shake my head, and my hair falls back into my face.

"Mike!" Nana scolds. I grin.

"I love you Nana."

She smiles.

"Love you too, rascal," she says, tugging on the string of the faded orange sweater I'm wearing. "Now get outta here!"

Grandpa hands my my backpack and steers me out the door.

"Bye Nana!" I call just before the door falls shut.

Ah, the streets of New York. Home sweet home.

'Course, I'd never tell anyone this, but school isn't exactly as perfect as it seems.

When I was little, people used to make fun of me for being so smart. So by the age of 7, I had this little routine worked out. Spend the first few days testing the waters, seeing how much I could afford to goof off. Then spend the rest of the year pushing the borders between too talkative, participating in class, and downright stupid. And then I didn't have to show anyone my grades, and then they could just assume you flunked. I still got teased for being the stupid one sometimes, and people might wonder why I wasn't in a special class or how I skipped 6th grade. My excuse? I did it all over the summer.

"Hey, Mike," Grandpa says, pulling me back to reality. "There's a kid 'bout your age. Why don't you say hi?"

Before I can protest, Grandpa's pushed me towards the corner where the kid is standing.

Yeah, my grandparents don't exactly have street smarts. Like I said, I guess they did things differently in their town.

"Uh, hi," I say, "I'm Mike. What's your name?"

He looks at me funny, then says, "Raphael."

"Oh."

"Is that your grandpa?"

"Um, yes?"

"Don't sound so scared. It was just a question."

I nod, unsure of what to say.

"How old are you?" Raphael asks.

"'M thirteen and a half."

"Middle schooler?"

I shake my head.

"Freshman," I say.

"Ah. Raphael says, then he falls silent.

I fall back towards Grandpa, who grins at me.

"How'd it go, kid?" he asks.

"Terrible. I don't think he likes me all that much," I say. I can't figure out why this bothers me so much. Usually I don't care.

"Ah, it's okay, Mike," Grandpa says, "you'll make other friends."

I nod, but can't bring myself to say more. We walk the rest of the way to school in silence, and Grandpa says goodbye about a block away from the school. More like I tell him he doesn't have to go any further. I don't know, though, just how many kids I'll know when I get there. Some of them could be bullies.

I have to force myself up the stairs into the school. I avoid glances and dodge insults about being a "fish", which doesn't really make sense, because they were once too. I all but throw my things into my new locker, and spend my morning exploring the halls for my homeroom. As it turns out, I find it just in time, sliding into my seat as the bell rings.


End file.
